


not for public use

by clairesail (orphan_account)



Series: machine crafted feelings [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Urinal, Extremely Dubious Consent, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Humiliation, Introspection, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Marking, Non-Human Genitalia, Piss kink, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, the hankcon is pre-ship, with a lot of software instabilities if you catch my drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clairesail
Summary: Between two urinals is an old four-legged wooden stool where Connor waits, his wrists handcuffed around the pipes protruding from the dingy tiled wall, arms held aloft his head by a length of chain pulled taut.“So you’re a million-dollar urinal now, is that it?"After killing the android revolution, Connor struggles to come to terms with his new assignment.
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Original Male Character(s), Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: machine crafted feelings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968466
Comments: 27
Kudos: 125





	not for public use

**Author's Note:**

> I played this cursed game for the first time this summer and like everyone else I fell in love with Connor, so even though I'm two years late I guess I gotta get it out of my system lol. 
> 
> This takes place after the android revolution failed and machine Connor succeeded in stopping the deviants, BUT he and Hank did not fight to the death on the Hart Plaza rooftop. Some referenced dialogue in this fic is only said by Hank if he and Connor are about to throw hands but I liked the line anyway so I added it. This is fanfic and there are no rules! The lines in question are _"Y'know ever since Cole died I've been nothing but a coward. Just wanted to destroy myself, lost track of the man I was. But y'know what? You don't fucking scare me, Connor. I remember who I am now."_ Some dialogue in this game is top-tier cringe but I really liked how this was delivered and how it shows hank's growth, so let's pretend Hank said this but Connor managed to bat his eyelashes out of a fight somehow anyway hehehe
> 
> Also please heed the tags! There's piss kink and due to the nature of undeviated androids the consent is dubious at best. References to suicide, to genocide, and machine Connor's dehumanizing language for himself didn't warrant tags imo since they're all canon-typical and not focused on. I don't see hankcon as father-son. Connor's genitalia (or lack thereof) was inspired by [rara_avis's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rara_avis/works) fics.
> 
> And thanks to lovely Gina for betaing this mess!!! <3 <3 any additional mistakes are mine cuz i'm still remembering how to write again.

The RK800 might be an obsolete machine now, but this one still has a purpose. 

Hidden away in the back corner of the third floor in the DPD’s central precinct is a small, dated men’s bathroom. Most of the police station was outfitted with modern amenities years ago—old computer monitors are now sleek touch-screen terminals, the captain’s office a high-tech glass case, restricted-access rooms require hand scanners for entry—but certain things hold higher priority, which means other things fall through the cracks. 

The rarely used men’s bathroom on the third floor is one such forgotten area of the station’s modernization. The stalls have flimsy doors with gaps at the floor and ceiling, the lights above the line of sinks are dim and yellow, the mirror discolored at the edges. And unlike the updated bathrooms on the main floor, there is still a short line of urinals against one wall, waist-high and with stained bowls.

Between two urinals is an old four-legged wooden stool where Connor waits, his wrists handcuffed around the pipes protruding from the dingy tiled wall, arms held aloft his head by a length of chain pulled taut.

The bathroom stinks. Connor cannot smell the way humans can, but he can identify particles floating in the air. Urine is abundant and trace amounts of a citrus-scented cleaning solution linger. Most pungent is a thick layer of ammonia, permeating everything else—no matter which way he turns his nose, his olfactory sensor is overwhelmed by it. Human semen has a strong chemical smell, especially in large quantities.

Someone enters the bathroom. The chain between the handcuffs clinks as Connor repositions himself, automatically slipping from his seat on the stool to rest on the lip of the porcelain bowl he's attached to. He goes to scan the man’s face out of habit before remembering he no longer has access to Cyberlife’s or the DPD’s expansive databases, so nothing comes up. His access to the internet is gone as well, nothing with which to entertain himself or pass the time, not that an android requires entertainment. A machine only requires a task.

He reads the officer’s name as it flashes across the holographic tag on his uniform: _Po. Waters._ The name doesn’t ring any bells. This is someone Connor has never encountered before. He creates a new subfolder and labels it with the man’s name.

Connor waits and observes as Officer Waters’ eyes go wide with shock, taking in the situation. His nose wrinkles in disgust for a moment before his expression smooths into something contemplative. He lets out a huff.

“Shit…they weren’t joking,” he mutters to himself, breathless. It’s not the first time Connor’s appearance has elicited such a reaction; he paints a depraved picture for the humans, dirty and defiled as he is, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s incapable of caring about anything but the mission.

His mission isn’t difficult these days. It’s rather simple, even: Connor sits on the urinal when someone comes in, does what they ask of him to the best of his ability, then idles on the stool until the next human comes in. At the departure of each human, his programming rewards him with a warm jolt of positive feedback, something that courses pleasantly through his wires. _Mission accomplished._

“And you gotta do everything I say?” the officer asks, but the way he strolls up to the urinal with his shoulders back makes it clear he doesn’t need confirmation.

Connor gives it anyway. “Yes, sir. You may use me however you like.”

The human chuckles at this, but Connor doesn’t see the humor in what he said. “Man, wish my wife would say that to me. Guess you’ll have to do.” His eyes scrape down Connor’s body, his lips pulling back in a disgusted snarl. “Damn you stink,” he brings a hand to his nose briefly before bringing it down to his pants zipper. “Christ, can't you clean yourself up?" he asks with unconcealed derision, and takes his cock out.

Connor looks down the length of his body, past the crude phrases scrawled into his fake skin in permanent marker, the bull's eye drawn over the outline of his thirium pump regulator in the middle of his chest, past his soft, bare mound at the apex of his thighs, down to where he knows his rear port is wet and sticky between the crease of his buttocks. He perches a heel against the lip of the bowl and spreads his legs to show off the goods—many have already made use of it, in spite of its inhumanness—and a glob of old semen escapes to drip on the dirty tile floor.

“My apologies, Officer Waters,” Connor says, using his social relations programming to inject sincerity into his voice. “My orders are to remain at this urinal and to not break the handcuffs for any reason.” 

The muscles in the officer’s jaw tense and his gaze flickers to the handcuffs keeping Connor shackled in place. He has made the officer uncomfortable by reminding him of his machine strength, and that there is little stopping Connor from breaking free and killing him. The cuffs are for little more than show—he has already identified five separate weak points in the chain that he could exploit to make his escape. 

Fortunately for this man, Connor is not a deviant. He attempts to reassure the policeman with a smile, feeling the artificial skin crease around the edges of his mouth, the expression being one he is unused to making. It only seems to disturb the man further. So he relaxes his features to something more neutral and nods at the sinks. 

“If you wet some paper towels, you could wipe me down first. I can also sanitize the inside of my mouth and expel foreign fluids from my rear port, if you like. Previous visitors have requested I keep their ejaculate inside.”

The man licks his lips, eyes roaming over Connor’s hole. “‘Rear port’, eh?” he chuckles, stroking his cock. It’s at seventy-eight percent rigidity, despite Connor having yet to touch him or activate any of his newly downloaded subroutines or modified programming. His gaze drags up and down Connor’s unclothed body, the pupils dilated wide, going wider still when they take in the words _‘feed me cock’_ scrawled onto the skin of his inner thighs, with an arrow pointing at the slick port.

“Y’know what it looks like to me? Looks like a hungry robot pussy.”

 _Ah._ Connor applies this new data to the subfolder he created for this man for easy reference the next time he visits. The policeman is not truly disgusted by his filthy state or his android genitalia, but rather aroused by it. His sexual pleasure is enhanced by degrading others. Several of the policemen Connor has encountered share the same sexual proclivities, so it is nothing he can’t handle. 

Various subroutines initiate, causing Connor to spread his legs further apart, to breathe deeper, a simulated blush appearing on his cheeks, and his rear port to self-lubricate, despite still being adequately lubricated from previous visitors’ ejaculate. He still wouldn’t say it looks like a pussy; with the skin activated it looks more like a smooth, wet asshole.

The officer groans at the display of arousal. “ _Fuck,_ that’s weird.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, angling Connor’s waist so he can see the whole, incomplete package. “Kinda hot, though, that they’d build you with a fuckhole.” 

Connor does not respond; none of the other policemen who have visited, with the exception of Detective Reed, have wanted him to talk once the encounter began. He lets the subroutines run while he devotes his main processes to contemplate other things.

Holding Connor by the hip, the officer enters him, grunting his satisfaction when he’s fully sheathed. 

Error messages pop up in his vision as he’s fucked, which makes it more difficult to focus his thoughts. His rear port wasn’t made for direct entry like this, it was designed to connect to genital and anal components, and function through the proper sleeves. Connor -51 had a penis and testicles—he can still access the fuzzy recording of his (own) hand examining the part—but he is Connor -53. Perhaps Cyberlife decided he was destroyed too frequently to merit its existence, or maybe that Lieutenant Anderson was unlikely to make use of its function. 

Hank. Now there’s someone Connor would welcome a visit from. 

A moan rips itself free of his voice box, a programmed response, newly added when he woke up here some time after having been deactivated. He wraps his legs around the man’s waist as he thrusts his cock into Connor’s slick channel. The chain rattles against the pipe as he moves his arms around, writhing and jerking in a show of reluctant pleasure as he’s roughly fucked. 

It’s obvious he’s not only expected to be subservient but to act it as well. Detective Reed was the first person he saw after waking up in the bathroom, the remains of the bruise Connor gifted him still coloring the bags beneath his eyes. He gave Connor his new mission parameters:

( _“The plastic detective’s finally gonna get its comeuppance for daring to replace us,” Reed sneers, ripping the jeans down Connor’s smooth legs. “You’re gonna stay right here and do the one thing you machines are good for.”_

_Connor tests the strength of the chain until fingers press so hard into his jaw the artificial skin recedes. Reed forces him to hold his gaze. “Stop that,” he snaps, and Connor’s programming reacts automatically to the authority of Reed’s voice, forcing his arms still. “Watch what I’m gonna do to you.”_

_Connor does; he watches Reed’s hand slowly withdraw, snaking down to the front of his trousers to pull his dick out. Then he marks Connor like an animal would mark its territory. Reed assigns Connor his orders, and red walls pop up and reduce his world to the confines of the restroom. He never contemplates breaking them.)_

Connor doesn’t care either way, just pants like it’s too much as he swipes away error messages, ignoring the wrongness of it.

It’s not that he feels pain, but he does feel _something_ : pressure, the creak in his plastic casing as it’s forced apart, the sensation of his mouth and throat being filled and stretched, of wires further inside being pushed aside to make room for an intrusion. The silky tubing of his rear port being rubbed raw, sending a cascade of error messages and alerts to flash in his display. Warnings of foreign matter, of fluid capacities reaching their limit. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but that doesn’t mean it’s not doing _something._

If Connor’s damaged here, there’s no coming back. He remembers Hank’s commentary at the Eden Club as if he was saying it in realtime, the memory his own and not a predecessor’s:

_“They get used till they break, then they get tossed out…”_

That’s his new objective, to be used until he breaks. It’s the humans' choice how they treat their tools, and it makes no difference to Connor.(Would they even toss him out after he breaks? Or would they keep using his body, even after he's shut down? He doesn't need to be functional to be fuckable.)

It would matter to Hank, if he were here. Hank had sympathy for abused androids (if androids could be abused), and Connor knows if he were to see him like this, he would probably have sympathy for him, too. 

With a groan the officer spills his release deep inside Connor’s port cavity. Connor wonders if the sight of his stretched hole dripping human seed would disgust Hank, or make him depressed like seeing the broken Tracis did. His subroutines have finished now that the man has pulled out, and Connor straightens himself back up on the urinal into a neutral position. The man goes to the sinks to begin washing his hands before he pauses, and turns back towards Connor as if remembering something.

He aims his now flaccid dick towards the center of Connor’s chest, where the crudely drawn bull’s eye rests over his thirium pump regulator.

“Open up,” the man says in a bored tone. Connor allows his jaw to drop open.

The stream of urine doesn’t even hit close to the bull’s eye, but most of the men who have frequented this bathroom don’t pay it any mind in the first place. The piss splashes onto Connor’s waiting tongue ( _water, urea, salts, creatinine, ammonia…_ ) and rolls down his chin, his neck, before the officer aims towards his chest and groin. An involuntary shudder wracks its way down his metal spine, another subroutine of simulated behavior and emotion. Fake shame and humiliation. In reality, Connor does not care that humans choose to pee on and fuck him. 

He bucks his hips into the warm stream, feeling the smooth glide as the piss trickles over his featureless crotch and worn hole. It trickles into the urinal below his lap and he moans and whimpers like he loves it, really plays it up for the human. If this is to be his new mission, he’ll strive to succeed.

He's just grateful not to be deactivated, though he's unclear on the specifics of exactly how Detective Reed or whoever managed to smuggle him here. Last Connor knew, the RK900 was ready for deployment, and he, the only active RK800, was decommissioned and slated for disassembly. One would think Cyberlife would want to reuse his expensive parts rather than see their state-of-the-art prototype be used as a public urinal for discontented cops, but it's not as if Connor expects to ever receive an explanation. He is a machine. He doesn't need to know.

The police officer shakes his dick dry. Connor feels a droplet hit the shell of his ear. He watches the man wash his hands before leaving, then Connor is alone once more, the scent of ammonia in the air stronger and fresher than it had been before.

Sometimes his thoughts wander, in the breaks between fulfilling his new duty, to Hank. The pair did not part on the best of terms, and though Connor knows Hank would be disappointed to learn of the actions he was required to take in order to fulfill his mission, he would still like to see him again. He knows about Hank's suicidal tendencies, but for some reason he finds he cannot contemplate his possible death—the man had seemed revived, somehow, the last time they'd seen one another on that rooftop. He had told Connor that he remembered the man he used to be, and Connor hopes that Hank has found a way to maintain that passionate determination in his absence. 

Connor doesn't believe Hank to be dead, but he hasn't seen him at the police station either. He has not yet entered this bathroom in the thirty-nine hours Connor's been restrained here. It isn’t the bathroom Hank would be liable to use, and Detective Reed has likely gone to great lengths to conceal his presence in the third floor men’s room, but there's simply no way Hank won’t eventually discover Connor’s…situation. As damaged as their relationship became in the end, Hank is and always has been a good man. He wouldn’t stand by and watch this happen.

~.~.~.~.~

Connor’s right; when Hank finally _does_ find him days later, he can’t watch—he can hardly look at him at all. 

“Jesus Christ _,_ ” he grouses, before removing his own coat to drape over Connor’s lap. Connor thinks that’s funny when there’s nothing there to cover up, but maybe it’s the whole scene together and its implications that overwhelms Hank. He rubs a wide palm down his face, looking a decade older in that moment. The nudity is only a fraction of what’s upsetting him.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Connor greets. He doesn’t try to smile; none of his previous attempts ever made any positive difference on Hank's mood.

Hank regards him fully only after his groin is covered. His eyes hold such an immense sadness—Connor always thought they were so expressive—as he reads the writing on Connor’s artificial skin. There are new ones: other than the usual derogatory remarks of _slut, plastic whore, cockwarmer, cumdump,_ there are also the tally marks on his arms and legs of the officers holding a competition on who can pee on Connor the most by the end of the week. Officer Waters is currently in the lead by two points.

“Connor, what the hell?” 

Connor shrugs and the cuffs clang against the metal pipes. Hank struggles to form a sentence for several seconds, his mouth opening before closing into a thin line, expression pinched. Connor grasps the seconds of silence between them to observe Hank: his scraggly grey hair still frames a tired, rough face, but his beard is recently trimmed, his eyes clear, and Connor cannot smell any alcohol on him.

“What happened?” Hank asks quietly. 

“I doubt I know much more than you do, Lieutenant,” Connor says calmly, trying to keep his voice even and choosing his words carefully to avoid upsetting Hank any more than he clearly already is. “I returned to Cyberlife to be deactivated, and woke up here.”

Hank gesticulates frantically. “And what-- you just let-- you’re just _staying_ here?”

Connor feels the submissive subroutines begin at the angry outburst—his mouth waters, his cheeks pinken with a fake blush, and his body squirms and presents itself invitingly—and he quickly cancels the process. He tries in vain to hide his body's reaction, casting his eyes to the floor, to the puddle of ejaculate beneath the urinal making the room smell like bleach.

“He-- they… altered my programming somehow. I don’t know what all they did to me, but I was instructed to stay here. I’m not allowed to break the cuffs.”

Hank looks at Connor like he’s stupid. And maybe he would be, if he were human, but he doesn’t expect Hank to understand what it’s like to not be alive. Connor is not free, _cannot_ be free.

“So you’re a million-dollar urinal now, is that it? All that fancy fucking technology they put in you, all your sophisticated programming, all that shit you did to _accomplish your mission_ and this is your reward…” 

Hank looks incensed. Not _at_ Connor though, but at Cyberlife, or whoever let this happen (He’s not going to tell Hank that it was Detective Reed, at least not yet, because he’s not even entirely sure of it himself and it would only serve to enrage Hank further). Hank looks at _Connor_ with pity, though.

“Guess Cyberlife won't be footing the bill on your repairs anymore.”

“Guess so.”

“So why not leave?” Hank squints at him. “I know you’re too clever to let a pair of handcuffs stop you.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say to that; Hank’s aware that androids have to obey their masters, he’s explained it to the man enough times. “I can’t complete my objectives if I’m not here. And I have to follow my orders. Until they change.”

Hank gets that look on his face, the one that says he’s sniffing out a trail. Connor likes that look. “And who decides that?”

“Whoever is registered as my owner. Currently it’s listed as _‘Acting DPD Superior’_ , which is...ambiguous, at best. I think it was to prevent me from refusing to service any of the officers that come here.” Connor tilts his head to the left two centimeters. “If you issue me conflicting orders, I'll have to default to the ranking officer. As a Lieutenant, that would be you. Your orders would cancel out the others and I would have to obey you.”

Hank scoffs. “Oh yeah? I was your _'acting superior officer'_ or whatever before and you never obeyed me once."

“That's not true and that was before, when Cyberlife’s orders took the highest priority.” Connor holds his hands out from where they hang above his head, to convey _look at me_. “Obviously, Cyberlife doesn’t own me anymore.” He ignores an error message that uttering that sentence prompts.

“But you want _me_ to own you?”

Another error message Connor dismisses. He’s not stupid. Misuse a machine long enough for a task it isn’t equipped or designed for and it will eventually break. And Connor has so much more to offer. Even Hank at his cruelest was preferable to this.

“I think you would be…a good owner.” _I would never want to deviate,_ Connor doesn’t say aloud. There’s an eighty-three percent chance any mentions of deviancy will have a negative effect on Hank’s mood, and Connor doesn’t want to aggravate him more than he already is. The situation requires delicacy.

Hank looks at Connor like he’s licking evidence and groans, pulls out a set of keys, muttering to himself as he unlocks Connor’s handcuffs from his wrists. “I can’t fucking believe I’m actually gonna do this, but it’s not like I can just fucking _leave_ you here...” Then directly to Connor, once the cuffs are off: “Alright, get up and get yourself cleaned off as best you can, I’m gonna find you some clothes.”

Connor grabs Hank’s arm and gives him an earnest look. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet. I’m still pissed at you, you know. Maybe I’ll do something worse to you and you’ll be wishing you were still here.” 

Hank’s voice is gruff and dismissive, but his eyes are soft and wavering, as if they were a cracked dam barely holding back all of his deepest feelings and looking at Connor for too long would cause it to shatter. Connor feels his lips pull into a small smile. He likes that he, a machine, can evoke such a reaction in Hank.

“There are worse fates than this, and I really don’t mind being urinated on. It’s the unnecessary damage this body will receive over time from repeated misuse that concerns me.” Connor tilts his chin down and looks up at Hank through his lashes in a way that has consistently made Hank’s cheeks flush red in the past. It’s successful this time as well. “I’d rather you piss on me than be pissed off with me.” 

The glare Hank shoots Connor tells him that was too far. 

“I’m sorry, I was only trying to lighten the mood through the use of dark humor.”

Hank shakes his head and sighs. “Yeah, yeah, just. Wash up.” He waves Connor off and exits the bathroom in a hurry.

The first thing Connor does is visually assess his hardware in the mirror. Luckily he hasn’t been here long enough to stop measuring the time in days, but he already discovers a slight loosening of his rear port entrance from excessive and careless penetration. Nothing that won’t self-repair with time, but knowing there’s not another body waiting for him has Connor suddenly more interested in preserving this one’s condition. 

He touches a fingertip to his LED, pressing in to deactivate his false skin. Hair, freckles, eyelashes, the color in his lips—all disappear into white and grey plastic. It’s the first time he’s ever seen himself completely bare; he’s not sure he wants to even now, but it’s the most efficient way to get rid of the permanent marker. He rinses his face in the sink and uses paper towels to wipe down the rest, concentrating the most on his front and between his legs. In one of the toilet stalls he empties his rear cavity and watches as globs of cum mixed with urine fall out. A jolt of satisfaction warms his insides at the sight, a pleasant, lingering sense of _Mission Accomplished._

Back in front of the mirror, Connor activates the sanitation processes in his oral and rear port cavities, just to be sure. He’ll still ask to use the shower when they get to Hank’s house; Hank won’t want to fuck him if he smells like other people’s pee. When he reactivates his skin, the markings are gone and he’s perfectly put together once more, as if nothing had ever happened. No one would ever be able to tell he’s nothing more than a worthless piss bucket.

Hank returns six minutes and twenty-four seconds later carrying a roll of human clothes tucked under his arm. He passes it to Connor and takes his coat back, eyes averted. Connor holds the pants up to his waist, surprised to see they aren’t far off from his own size.

“Where’d you get these?”

“Had to swipe something from the gym locker room. Not really worried about stealing when I just found out I’ve been working alongside lowlives that pull shit like this. Fuck those assholes, seriously. Sorry I couldn't find you any shoes.”

Connor nods and begins dressing. He knows Hank hasn’t forgiven him yet for everything he did to stop the deviants, but he’s giving Connor another chance. Even if it’s only temporary, it will still be nice to reconnect with him.

Hank smuggles Connor home in the trunk of his car, in someone else’s clothes, barefoot, with his knees tucked to his chest. 

Connor looks forward to seeing Sumo again. He wonders what it’ll be like to be with Hank outside the context of police work. He uses his preconstruction software to imagine Hank wrapping him up in his arms over and over again, warm and pleasant like a completed objective.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read til the end pls consider leaving kudos and/or a comment, esp if you want to encourage me to continue writing. Writers need validation and support! If you wanna talk to me about dbh and connor being a sad robot I can be reached on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/clairesail)


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